


Old Scars and Open Wounds

by onceuponanevilangel



Series: Cartinelli Week 2016 [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponanevilangel/pseuds/onceuponanevilangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been one month since Peggy saved New York City and moved into Howard's million dollar townhouse with Angie, but the hero lifestyle isn't quite all it's cracked up to be. For starters there's the nightmares that are only getting worse as the days go by, a dead wartime enemy who might not be so dead after all, and skeletons from Angie's past that might be a little more relevant than Peggy would have thought. </p><p>Cartinelli Week 2016 Day 1: Season 2 AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Scars and Open Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for quite some time, so truthfully, I'm just glad to have it out of my drafts folder. Thank you so much for reading and as always, I hope you enjoy!

It was cold.

 

Peggy was so very cold and she could hear shouts all around her. There was gunfire somewhere in the distance and thick snowflakes blowing all around and settling in her eyelashes, making it hard to see more than a few feet in front of her.

 

Someone—Dugan, she thought. It had to be Dugan—was calling her name. She tried to call back, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

 

Her right shoulder was burning and she could just barely make out the shadow of a man running away. She started to follow, but only managed a few steps before her knees gave way and she collapsed in the snow.

 

Suddenly there were arms around her, warm and strong. More voices, closer now. Her gun was on the ground in front of her and she lunged for it, but those arms were holding her back and—

 

The phone was ringing.

 

Peggy jerked awake and it took a second for her to get her bearings.

 

She was in her bed.

 

There was no snow and there were no arms and there was no pain.

 

She was alone in her bed and bright, warm sunlight was streaming in through the huge windows.

 

Angie’s side of the bed was cold.

 

And the phone was still ringing.

 

Peggy lunged across the bed to grab it, but she sucked in a breath as she felt a sudden twinge of residual pain in her shoulder. It was only a brief flash, but it made her pause long enough for the phone to stop ringing.

 

Peggy flopped back down on the pillows and took a few deep breaths to center herself.

 

The nightmares had been coming more frequently in the month since she and Angie had moved into Howard’s townhouse and though Angie was rarely woken by them, they were becoming harder and harder to conceal, if only because they kept Peggy tossing and turning for most of the night and left her exhausted in the mornings.

 

Peggy could tell that Angie was starting to get worried. She hadn’t said anything yet, but Peggy was sure it was only a matter of time.

 

Just as she was about to roll out of bed and see about making herself breakfast, the phone started ringing again.

 

She groaned and rolled over—a bit more carefully this time to keep from antagonizing the old war wounds—to reach the receiver on the nightstand.

 

“Hello?” she asked in a voice that was more growl than anything else.

 

“Morning to you too, Carter. I need you in here today.”

 

Thompson.

 

And Peggy had been so hoping that maybe for once she’d actually be able to spend her day off outside of the office.

 

“Agent Thompson—“

 

“ _Chief_ ,” Thompson said sharply. He took far too much pleasure in throwing his new title around ever since Sousa had moved out to the California branch and it annoyed Peggy more than almost anything else. In fact, she was almost entirely sure that was exactly why he did it.

 

She hoped he could tell that she was rolling her eyes through the phone as she continued, “Fine. _Chief_  Thompson, did it ever occur to you that perhaps I had plans for how to spend my day off?”

 

“Cancel ‘em,” Thompson said. “I need you in here. We picked up a new case this morning and it looks like we might need some of your expertise.”

 

“Why Chief Thompson, are you insinuating that I might know something about a case that you couldn’t figure out yourself?” Peggy asked. She sat up against the headboard and started curling her finger absently in the telephone wire.

 

“If I’m insinuating anything, it’s that I’ll double your pay for today if you can get here in the next half an hour. Tick tock, Carter.”

 

With that, Thompson hung up and Peggy set the receiver back on the base.

 

She stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, her eyes following the snowy patterns in the white plaster.

 

Maybe if she just didn’t get up, she could pretend that Thompson had never called and just not move for a little while.

 

But then again, a double salary did sound nice and Angie’s birthday was coming up soon. It might be nice to take her somewhere a step above the automat for dinner.

 

Angie.

 

Angie was gone.

 

Was Angie supposed to be going somewhere?

 

Peggy could vaguely remember talk about a big audition, but it was still early and her mind was only just beginning to work.

 

She got up and shuffled over to the bureau where a slip of paper caught her eye.

 

It was a plain, yellow-lined piece that looked like it had been hastily torn from the pad next to the hall phone. Angie’s handwriting was messy and distinctive and Peggy’s lips twitched as she held the note up to the light so she could read it better.

 

_Morning, English. You were real restless last night and I thought I’d let you sleep since it’s your day off anyway. Sorry to leave so early, but I’ve got that big audition today and then I’m picking up the closing shift at the automat. Maybe you could stop by later if you’ve got time? I love you! –Angie_

_P.S. There’s a blueberry muffin on the kitchen counter for you if you want breakfast._

Peggy could feel herself smiling and she set the note back down on the bureau as she started to get dressed.

 

She could always count on Angie to cheer her up, even when Angie wasn’t around.

 

* * *

 

 

Peggy was not a coffee person.

 

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true.

 

Peggy was not a coffee person under normal circumstances, but it _did_ have significantly more caffeine than her usual tea and if she added a little bit of sugar and then maybe a little bit more to make it taste less like what she imagined death would taste like, then it was _almost_ good.

 

She could almost see what Steve and the Howling Commandoes had liked so much about it.

 

Except the only time Peggy had ever really had coffee was when Barnes had made it during the war or when Angie made it. Apparently the two of them had some sort of talent that had not been granted to whoever brewed the coffee in the SSR break room.

 

The coffee in question was so horribly bitter that Peggy was half convinced she was sipping battery acid and she wanted so badly to just pour out her mug, but she had skipped her usual tea to make it to the office on time and Angie had been right in her note; Peggy hadn’t slept very well. If she was going to be dealing with Thompson at all, she was going to need the caffeine.

 

She finally sighed and drained the mug in one swallow. She shivered in disgust as she set it in the sink.

 

Lesson learned: stick to Angie’s coffee from now on.

 

“Carter.”

 

Peggy spun around to see Thompson standing in front of his office door, his arms crossed in front of him.

 

“My office. Now,” he commanded before turning back into his office and not-quite-slamming the door behind him.

 

Peggy rolled her eyes, but she made her way across the office, making sure that her heels clicked a little bit louder than usual so that at the very least, Thompson would know that she was not at all happy about being there.

 

She paused briefly in front of his door and bit her lip to keep from laughing as she reached for the handle.

 

It had been nearly two weeks since Sousa had left for California, but apparently the new glass for the door hadn’t come in or something as it still read _Chief Daniel Sousa_ in gold letters across the frosted pane.

 

Peggy opened the door without knocking and found Thompson sitting in his leather chair with his hands behind his head and a small smirk playing at his lips.

 

He was getting far too much enjoyment out of this and Peggy didn’t appreciate it.

 

“Yes, sir?” she asked.

 

“Does the name ‘Werner Abel’ ring any bells for you?” Thompson asked.

 

Peggy thought for a moment. “No, it doesn’t sound familiar. Why?”

 

Thompson leaned forward and grabbed a file folder from the corner of his desk to hand to her.

 

“That’s why.”

 

Peggy arched an eyebrow, but Thompson just nodded at the folder, so she opened it.

 

The folder was full to bursting with files and letters, most of them in various states of redaction, black smudges obscuring names, dates, and places, but there was one page that stood out.

 

It was a photograph of a tall man with feathery light hair and eyes so pale they sent a chill down Peggy’s spine.

 

She knew those eyes. The problem was that she had no idea where from.

 

“Werner Abel was a German special forces sniper back in the war. Had the highest number of confirmed kills of anyone on either side,” Thompson explained. “He finally got gunned down in a blizzard back in 1943.

 

“And he’s important because…?”

 

“He’s important because apparently he’s not dead.”

 

“What?” Peggy asked.

 

“The guy had a signature move. Two shots to the heart from right in front of his victim.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like your average sniper,” Peggy murmured.

 

“Exactly,” Thompson said. “He had the official title of sniper, but it’s pretty safe to say he was a Hydra operative. His body was found in Russia in ‘43 with three shots in the back. He was frozen near solid and about as dead as you can get.”

 

“Except you said–”

 

“He’s back,” Thompson said. “Well, either that or he’s got a copy cat. We got a call from the NYPD early this morning. They recovered a body outside a warehouse near the Hudson. Two close range shots to the heart delivered from the front of the victim.”

 

“Why exactly would the police call us?” Peggy asked. She glanced back down at the photograph in the file before closing the folder and dropping it back on Thompson’s desk. “If it’s a homicide, it’s their jurisdiction, not ours.”

 

Thompson opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small clear vial that he slid easily across the desk to Peggy. “They found this in the wounds.”

 

Peggy lifted the vial and inspected it. There was a thick silver liquid at the bottom that coated the glass as she rolled it around.

 

“Is this…?”

 

“The bullets,” Thompson said. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms back behind his head again. “That’s how we know it’s him or someone close to him who knew how he operated. According to the eggheads in the lab, that’s an experimental piece of German tech. Bullets that liquefy when they hit human body temperature.”

 

“Quicksilver,” Peggy breathed.

 

“You’ve seen it before.”

 

“Yes, during the war. Nasty substance really. When it liquefies, it spreads and infects the wounds so that even if he missed, his victims would still die horribly.”

 

Suddenly she knew exactly how she knew the man in the file.

 

The memories rushed upon her in a flood that made her press one hand on the desktop to steady herself.

 

She knew that man.

 

She knew those eyes.

 

The photograph was completely devoid of color, but she knew that those eyes were icy blue.

 

The only spots of color in the swirling snow.

 

Peggy set the vial back on the desk next to the file and lifted her right hand to press gently against the scars on her shoulder.

 

“What do you want me to do about it?” she asked. She noted with a hint of pride that her voice still sounded strong and steady. If Thompson noticed her acting strange at all, he didn’t say anything about it.

 

“I want you to track the killer,” he replied simply.

 

“Why me and why today?” Peggy asked. She was finally fully awake now—the only good thing to come of drinking that awful coffee—and her hands slid down to her hips as she raised an eyebrow.

 

“Because I need you to take the lead on this one. Abel’s last confirmed mission was to take out the 107th and he was found dead barely a week later which means that if anyone saw him before he died, it was your boys and that means that you’re the one who’d be able to get the most intel about it. I want a preliminary report on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

 

Peggy briefly debated saying something else, but on second thought, she really didn’t want to risk angering Thompson anymore and losing the rest of her day off. So she just picked up the file folder again and held it tight to her chest.

 

“Yes, sir,” she said.

 

“Good. Then get outta here,” Thompson said. He tucked the vial of quicksilver back into his drawer and crossed his ankles on the desktop.

 

Peggy just turned and stalked off toward the elevator before Thompson could ask her to do anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

It was nearing one o’clock in the afternoon and the automat was full to bursting with the usual lunch rush. The tables were all taken and Peggy was forced to take the only empty stool between a middle-aged man who didn’t seem to realize that the corner of his newspaper was resting in his coffee mug and a young woman tapping her long, pink nails on the counter.

 

“Hey, Peggy, you made it!”

 

Peggy heard Angie’s voice before she saw her and smiled when Angie hurried over to the counter with a coffee pot in her hand and a grin on her face.

 

“Of course,” Peggy said. “I’m sorry I overslept this morning. How’d the audition go?”

 

“It was okay I guess. Probably not my best, but they let me finish my song and they said they’d call tomorrow night after they saw all the other girls and narrowed it down. What about you? How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay? Want some coffee or something?”

 

“I’m fine, darling,” Peggy said, waving off Angie’s concern with a small smile. “Did _you_ make the coffee you’re offering?”

 

“Sure did. Everyone ‘round here knows I make the best coffee.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Angie grabbed a clean mug from under the counter and poured a fresh mug of coffee. She slid it and the sugar dispenser toward Peggy just as a man at the other end of the counter snapped his fingers at her.

 

“Hey, miss. I’ve been waiting on my refill for five minutes. Mind actually earning your pay?”

 

Angie rolled her eyes and moved to top off the guy’s mug.

 

“Need me to say something?” Peggy asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking just the tiniest bit.

 

“Nah, he’s one of my biggest tippers most days. Don’t need you scaring off my good customers,” Angie said. She set the coffee pot on the machine behind her and leaned her elbows on the counter so she could talk to Peggy a little easier. “So what happened this morning? When’d you wake up?”

 

“Not as late as I’d have liked,” Peggy said. She poured a considerable amount of sugar into her mug and stirred it in. “Thompson called me into the office this morning. There’s a new case he wants me to take the lead on.”

 

“But it’s your day off,” Angie protested. “That’s not fair! He can’t do that, can he?”

 

“Of course he can. He’s the chief. And besides, it’s not so bad. Just a murder case.”

 

“Is it classified or do I get to hear about it?” Angie asked.

 

“Classified I’m afraid.”

 

Angie let out a dramatic sigh, but her smile reappeared just a moment later.

 

“So I was thinking that maybe tonight we could go see a movie. That new Rita Hayworth film’s playing tonight. What do you say, English?”

 

“Angie, I’d love to, but I don’t think I can. Thompson wants a report by tomorrow morning and I should really work on it and I’m really tired. I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Angie said. “We’ll talk when I get home tonight.”

 

Peggy could tell just by the way that Angie straightened her back that it definitely wasn’t fine, but Angie didn’t say anything.

 

Another customer snapped at her from the other side of the counter and she turned to answer him.

 

Before she could turn back around, Peggy dropped a few crumpled bills on the counter and hurried outside.

 

* * *

 

 

They did not talk when Angie got home.

 

That was due in no small part to the fact that by the time Angie normally got home from the closing shift, Peggy was a little busy staring at a dead body in the SSR morgue.

 

Apparently the killer hadn’t gotten the memo about them really needing a quiet night at home.

 

She had, of course, left a note for Angie telling her not to wait up, but she had a strong suspicion that Angie wasn’t going to listen to her.

 

Peggy leaned over the body of the woman on the examining table in front of her.

 

Tall. Blonde. Mid-twenties. Two gunshot wounds in her heart.

 

If the gunpowder residue on her blouse was anything to go on, the shots had been delivered from close range and when Peggy leaned a little closer to inspect them, she saw the telltale black veining and the drops of silver liquid that had soaked into the white fabric of her blouse.

 

Quicksilver.

 

Peggy shuddered and she felt a twinge in her shoulder.

 

“Who called this in?” Thompson asked.

 

Peggy had nearly forgotten that he was there and she mentally cursed the way she startled at his voice.

 

“A cop actually,” the scientist said. Peggy had already forgotten his name. “They found her on the side of the road in Queens. There weren’t any witnesses, though. No one heard or saw anything. We also haven’t gotten a name yet, but I’m working on it and I’ll let you know the moment I find out.”

 

“So is there anything that you _can_ tell us?” Thompson asked. He tapped his fingers agitatedly on the edge of the metal examining table and Peggy had to fight the urge to grab his hand to still it. The best she could do was just grit her teeth and try to ignore it.

 

“Well, I can tell you that it was the gunshots that killed her. All the veining that you see around the entry wounds happened post-mortem. I think that’s why this looks different than the last body that came in like this,” the scientist said.

 

One of Peggy’s hands fell to her hip and she bit her lip. “Um, Doctor…”

 

“Warren,” the scientist said.

 

Peggy smiled. “Yes, Warren. Of course. Um, Doctor Warren, you wouldn’t happen to have any photographs of the first victim, would you? I noticed there were none in the file given to me by Chief Thompson and I was hoping to be able to do a side-by-side comparison of the two victims.”

 

“I can do you one better,” Warren replied. “We’ve still got the first girl here.”

 

“Oh. Well.” Peggy raised her eyebrows and turned to Thompson who just shrugged and followed Warren into the next room. It was a small room, much colder than the main lab. There was a single metal examining table in the center of the room and on top of it was a single metallic, coffin-shaped case that was the perfect size to hold a person.

 

“Is that her?” Peggy asked.

 

“Yup,” Warren said. “Due to the nature of the science involved in her murder what with the melting bullets and all that, we wanted to keep her around for a little while longer to see if we could learn anything else from her. Get ready.” He undid the latches on the side of the case and opened the lid.

 

The woman inside was tall and thin with dark brown hair. Her eyes were closed and all the color had drained out of her face, giving her a pale, waxy coloring. There was a sheet covering much of her body and Dr. Warren pulled it back enough to reveal the entrance wounds, but Peggy thought he didn’t even have to do that much. Most of the woman’s body was all black veins and the closer they got to the heart, the more raised and pronounced they were.

 

“As you can see here, it’s pretty obvious that the shots themselves didn’t kill her, but when they melted, whatever toxin they’re made up of got into her bloodstream and her heart just kept pumping it until she died,” Dr. Warren explained.

 

“Have you found anything out yet?” Thompson asked.

 

“Not so far, but we’re running some tests on the genetic material that’s been infected and we may be able to determine its makeup within a few days,” Dr. Warren said.

 

“Well hurry it up,” Thompson said. “We don’t have forever to chase this guy down.”

 

“I’m working on it, We just—“

 

“What was her name?” Peggy asked.

 

“I’m sorry?” Warren asked.

 

“Carter, what are you--?”

 

“Her name,” Peggy said again. “She looks familiar is all.”

 

“Her name was Alexandra Forester. She was a nurse on the European front from 1943 to 1945,” Warren said. “You know her?”

 

“I used to,” Peggy murmured. She turned to Thompson. “If there’s nothing else you need—“  


“You’re free to go,” Thompson said. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Peggy said shortly. She nodded once and turned on her heel before stalking out of the lab.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Peggy really wished that she could be right less often.

 

Sure enough, when she got home, Angie was waiting for her in the sitting room with a book on her lap and her lips pursed in a thin line.

 

“I got your note,” she said. Her tone was warmer than Peggy had expected, but tired. Exasperated. Like Peggy had done this one too many times before.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peggy said. “I—“

 

Angie just held up her hand. “Don’t apologize. You’ve got international secrets and all that I guess. Are you coming to bed?”

 

“In a minute,” Peggy replied. “I just have to look through a couple of files. You can go ahead.”

 

Angie just hummed her acknowledgement and crossed her arms over her chest as she headed toward the stairs.

 

Peggy sighed, but she didn’t follow. She couldn’t. Angie just needed a little time to cool down.

 

Peggy kicked off her shoes, hooked her fingers through the heels, and padded into her study.

 

The bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner was devoted entirely to Peggy’s files on herself. She had quite a collection of copies that she had managed to get her hands on over the years and she had a hunch that she knew exactly where she’d find the name she was looking for.

 

Medical report dated January 1943.

 

The manila file folder was heavy and it hit the desktop with a dull _thump._

 

Peggy opened it and flipped through pages upon pages of descriptions of the gunshot wounds she had sustained as well as the week or so of infection that followed.

 

Peggy couldn’t remember much after the injury; it was mostly just a blur interspersed with flashes of pain and blurry faces looking down at her with more concern than she felt she needed in her entire lifetime. Her next conscious memory was of Steve helping her into the back of the truck where the rest of the commandoes were already packed and waiting.

 

He had insisted on holding on to her elbow even though she had told him in no uncertain terms that she was more than capable of walking by herself.

 

She would, however, have been lying if she said she wasn’t a little appreciative.

 

The pages that Peggy was flipping through were mostly the same: straightforward descriptions of her wounds in vivid detail, documentation of the surgery to attempt to remove the bullets and the subsequent measures that had to be taken when it was discovered that the bullets had simply melted.

 

Peggy turned to one of the last pages in the folder where all the attending nurses and doctors had signed off on the report and she slid one crimson nail down the paper until she finally saw the name she was looking for.

 

_Alexandra Forester._

The memory was hazy, but Peggy could see the vague, blurry outline of that kind face, her brown hair tied back and her white nurse’s uniform stained with dirt and other people’s blood from so much time manning the medical tents.

 

The next name on the sheet caught Peggy’s eye too.

 

_Elizabeth Riley._

The image of the woman appeared instantly in Peggy’s mind.

Tall. Blonde. Mid-twenties. Currently lying dead on a cold metal slab with two gunshot wounds straight through her heart.

 

Peggy’s breath caught in her throat.

 

She grabbed a pad from the side of her desk and scrawled down the names as well as the other two on the list. One was a nurse, Vera Chaffee, and one name that made her blood run cold.

 

_Antonio Martinelli._

 

Peggy’s pen scratched against the paper as the name registered. Surely it couldn’t be just a coincidence, but then again, Angie would have mentioned having a brother. Or maybe he was just a cousin or something. She wracked her brain trying to remember what he looked like, sounded like, something, but nothing was coming back to her.

 

She dropped her pen on top of her pad and started going through the file again, paying a little more attention this time.

 

There was very little mention of Antonio Martinelli that Peggy could see, or maybe it was just that the words were starting to blur on the page in front of her from staring at it for so long. She rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times, but all that did was make Peggy realize just how heavy her eyelids were getting. But she couldn’t go to bed just yet. There were still so many dots to connect, but sleep was calling to her all the same and before she knew it, the world was fading to black around her.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who’s Alexandra Forester?”

 

Peggy jerked awake and shot up in her chair a little too quickly for her stiff neck to appreciate. She supposed that was the price she paid for falling asleep at her desk again.

 

The medical file was still spread open before her and the pad with the four names on it was half hidden under her arm. Angie was standing in front of the desk with her arms crossed and her lips set in a thin line.

 

“Oh, no one,” Peggy said, her voice still raspy from sleep and entirely unconvincing even to her own ears. “Just an old friend from the war.”

 

“War friends, huh?” Angie asked. Before Peggy could even react, Angie reached down and swiped the pad away. She read through the names and Peggy could tell the instant she reached the last one. Angie’s playful smile faded away and her eyes seemed to harden.

 

“Where did you get that name?” she asked simply.

 

Peggy flipped the file folder shut and leaned forward on it.

 

“It’s part of an ongoing investigation,” she said simply. “It’s classified, but any information you have would be really—“

 

“He died,” Angie snapped, tossing the pad back onto the desk. “February 1943. How’s that?”

 

Peggy paused and started to reach for Angie’s hand. “I’m so sorry, darling. I had no—“

 

“I should go,” Angie said, yanking her hand away. “I’ll be late for work. Will I see you at all tonight?” Peggy started to respond, but Angie cut her off again. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you later.”

 

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the study. Peggy waited until her footsteps faded away upstairs before she tore the piece of paper off the pad and stuffed it in her pocket.

 

The clock on the wall read 8:45. She was going to be late if she didn’t leave right away and besides, going upstairs to change would mean she’d have to see Angie again and she wasn’t sure either of them were ready for that at the moment. Maybe Angie just needed a little time to cool down.

 

Peggy put the medical file back in her filing cabinet and paused in the foyer just long enough to touch up her lipstick and grab her coat and shoes before she was out the door.

 

What were the chances Thompson was going to remember her outfit from yesterday anyway?

 

* * *

 

 

“Geez, Carter, did you even go home at all last night? That’s the same skirt you were wearing yesterday, isn’t it?”

 

“Good morning to you too, chief,” Peggy grumbled as she sipped at her awful break room coffee.

 

“You make any progress on the case yet?” Thompson asked.

 

“Actually yes.” Peggy set down her mug and pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. She spread it on the table and pulled out a pen.

 

“Alexandra Forester was one of the nurses that attended to me after I was injured in January of 1943.” She drew a slash threw Alexandra’s name. “I believe this woman, Elizabeth Riley, was the second victim. She was another one of the nurses at the camp.” Another slash through Elizabeth’s name. “I have a source that suggests Antonio Martinelli, the surgeon, died in early 1943.” She drew a third slash. “If my instincts are correct, I think this woman, Vera Chaffee, is going to be the next victim unless we can find her in time.”

 

“That name. I know that name.” Thompson tapped the paper and furrowed his brow. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but good work, Carter. I need to make a phone call.”

 

He turned and headed back towards his office as Peggy sat back down in her chair. She reached for her mug and took a sip of her coffee, but it had already cooled to just barely lukewarm and she just grimaced and set it back down.

 

She looked down at the paper in front of her and tapped her pen against her bottom lip. There was a part of her that really wanted to just leave well enough alone, but she couldn’t. She had to know.

 

She sighed as she grabbed the phone on the corner of her desk and dialed the switchboard room.

 

“Morning, Peg,” Rose said. “What do you need?”

 

“I need files on a deceased military surgeon named Antonio Martinelli. He died in February of 1943. I’m not sure how, but anything you can find on him I would really appreciate,” Peggy said.

 

“You got it. I’ll place a few calls.”

 

“Thank you, Rose.”

 

“Always a pleasure,” Rose said before she hung up.

 

Peggy set the phone back down and was just about to get up to dump her coffee down the break room sink when Thompson’s door opened and he called her name.

 

“Coming, sir,” she said. She stood up and straightened her skirt before making her way across the bullpen towards Thompson’s office. She opened the door and stepped right inside. “Yes?”

 

“Congratulations, Carter. Your little lead might be the start of a trail,” Thompson said.

 

“I’m sorry?” Peggy asked.

 

“I just got off the phone with Sousa. Had to wake him up, but he said a woman named Vera Chaffee paid a visit to the SSR office about a week ago claiming that she was being stalked.  She was a nurse in the European theater during the war, so I think I found your girl.”

 

“That’s great,” Peggy said.

 

“That it is. And what’s even greater is that the next flight for Los Angeles leaves in three and a half hours,” Thompson said. “I want you on it.”

 

“S-sir?”

 

“You heard me. You found this lead, you think this Chaffee woman is the next victim, go chase her.”

 

“I’m not sure that I can—“

 

Thompson leaned forward and pressed his hands flat against the desktop. “This is your lead, your case, Carter. We need to find whoever’s killing these people and make sure that he can’t hurt anyone else. Now are you going to act like an agent and do your job or will I have to find someone else who will?”

 

“No. I’ll go,” Peggy said. “I that all?”

 

“That’s all,” Thompson said with a curt nod.

 

“Then I suppose I have a plane to catch,” Peggy said. She turned on her heel and hurried out of the room before Thompson could get another word in edgewise.

 

She left her cold mug on her desk and just snatched the paper and stuffed it back into her pocket, grabbed her coat, and continued toward the elevator.

 

A quick stop by the empty townhouse to pack her bags, a note left on the entryway table for when Angie got home, and Peggy was off to LA and whatever was waiting for her there.


End file.
